


Familiar

by Badwolf36



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Familiars, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Nogitsune Trauma, Post Nogitsune, Post-Episode: s03e24 The Divine Move, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spark Stiles, Tattoos, post season 3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badwolf36/pseuds/Badwolf36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this fanart: allantieeart.tumblr.com/post/79057995175/lately-i-really-thought-about-drawing-some-sterek<br/>______________<br/>At first, he thinks the small red-orange creature that’s sitting up in the center of the intricate circle he’s scratched into the dirt with a stick is a cat. He’s almost disappointed at the cliché (Really? A magic user having a cat as a familiar? Really?). But then the smoke dissipates enough that he can see the creature he’s summoned clearly.</p><p>He sees the elongated snout, the bushy tail, and the piercing eyes and recognizes the spirit: A fox. The Nogitsune had been a fox spirit, one turned dark and twisted, but a fox nonetheless. And now his familiar, an extension of his soul, an integral part of him, a representation of who he is, shows up as the same creature that once possessed him to cause chaos and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar

**Title:** Familiar

 **Fandom:** Teen Wolf

 **Rating:** PG-13

 **Word count:** 6,257

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Teen Wolf or any related properties.

 **Warnings:** Post Season 3B

 

******************

 

He’s so excited when he first manages to summon his familiar.

Deaton had started teaching him small things, emissary practices, as the nightmare that was Kate Argent stormed through Beacon Hills again. He’s still got a spark apparently, even after the Nogitsune. Deaton, the first time Stiles managed a mountain ash ring with just a pinch of the stuff, had murmured something about the Nogitsune and residual power, but he hadn’t elaborated and Stiles hadn’t wanted to know.

When he completes the summoning for his familiar (entirely too much chanting for Stiles’ taste), there’s an excessive amount of sweet-smelling smoke that he has to wave away from his face.

He’s alone in the middle of the preserve at midnight, because Deaton said he needed to focus singularly on himself. He’s also barefoot and shirtless, dressed only in skinny red jeans and his Batman boxers underneath, because apparently most rituals require you to be half or fully naked. There’d also been blood involved, which Stiles is choosing not to think about even as his left palm stings from the small wound he’d created there with a silver knife.

At first, he thinks the small red-orange creature that’s sitting up in the center of the intricate circle he’s scratched into the dirt with a stick is a cat. He’s almost disappointed at the cliché (Really? A magic user having a cat as a familiar? Really?). But then the smoke dissipates enough that he can see the creature he’s summoned clearly.

He sees the elongated snout, the bushy tail, and the piercing eyes and recognizes the spirit: A fox. The Nogitsune had been a fox spirit, one turned dark and twisted, but a fox nonetheless. And now his familiar, an extension of his soul, an integral part of him, a representation of who he is, shows up as the same creature that once possessed him to cause chaos and death.

His knees fail beneath him and he falls, landing on his butt amongst the dirt and leaves. The thing (it’s not a part of him, it’s not) approaches him silently, leaving him scrambling on his hands and knees to get away from it, blind terror overriding all his instincts and emotions.

The rocks and branches scrape his palms (especially his still-bleeding one), but the slight pain isn’t enough to get him to take his eyes off the fox. The amber glow of its eyes, eerily like his own, is so unsettling he nearly throws up. His stomach twists hard as he hears the Nogitsune’s voice in his ears, the same vile, oil-slick voice he hears in his nightmares whispering his name and promising to torture and kill everyone he loves.

Stiles’ naked back thumps hard into a tree, the rough bark digging into his flesh, and he’s trapped, trapped, and the thing is so close to him and…

The fox puts a paw on his denim-covered left knee, the touch sending tendrils of warmth shooting through his chilled body. He shivers hard and the thing climbs into his lap, positioning its front paws on his chest, just above his heart.

It looks at him, and he looks back.

It opens its jaws, pearly white teeth shining in the moonlight, and Stiles swipes the small body away from his own, just as he had destroyed the Go game he played against the Nogitsune on the Nemeton.

And just like that time, he falls into blackness.

****************

It gets easier, over time.

It gets easier to accept that Allison’s really gone. That Aiden died a good guy.

It gets easier to accept that his connection to the Nemeton, the darkness around his heart, is still there. For a time, he’d entertained the notion that all the pain and terror and horror the Nogitsune put him through should have canceled that out, but it doesn’t. The darkness remains, even if the door in his mind is shut now.

It gets easier to accept the way people look at him. Easier to accept the way Lydia still sometimes flinches when he comes up behind her, the way he can’t give Scott a friendly punch in the stomach without both of them looking ill immediately after, the way his dad still looks at him sometimes like he’s looking for someone else behind his eyes. It gets easier to accept Malia’s shrewd looks when he pulls his jacket tighter around himself or when Kira hands him a to-go cup of hot chocolate with an awkward head bob.

It gets easier to accept the way Derek starts interacting with him. Derek comes to him for advice, they save each other’s lives on a regular basis, and Derek sometimes hugs him out of the blue. It’s strange (made all the stranger because this Derek is so far from the one he met out in the woods the day he and Scott searched for Scott’s inhaler, but then again, he’s far from the Stiles he had been that day). It’s strange, but it gets easier to accept.

And it’s because of those encounters that he can start to slowly accept that his familiar is a fox.

It’s not easy. The second time he summons it, he’s in Deaton’s clinic and has a panic attack so bad that Deaton sedates him (possibly with the stuff he uses for animals, but Stiles hadn’t really been aware enough to ask or protest) after his soothing words can’t calm Stiles down.

It appears on its own when Stiles is getting a series of black lines (another suggestion of Deaton’s) marked on his left arm.

It shows up in the corner of Derek’s loft and Derek (wielding a tattoo gun and not a blowtorch; apparently Derek had gotten a tattoo license and the relevant equipment somewhere along the line) raises an eyebrow at the small creature as he wipes away the blood and ink from Stiles’ arm with a sterile pad. Stiles freezes, to which Derek turns that raised eyebrow on him.

They’re alone aside from the fox, because Stiles didn’t want any extra witnesses around (Scott, mostly, because the ribbing would never end) if he passed out from the pain. (Not that he thought he would. After enduring the constant, terrible ache of being forcibly separated from the Nogitsune and still having his very essence tethered to it until its agonizingly painful death, Stiles considers his pain tolerance pretty high.)

“Relax,” Derek murmurs. Then, “So it’s a fox. Deaton said you weren’t reacting well to it.”

The fox makes a short yipping noise before striding forward. Stiles cringes, trying to shift away from it, but Derek still has a firm grip on his bicep.

“What is it?” Derek asks calmly, like he knows the answer (obviously he knows the answer if Deaton’s actually been sharing information for once), but wants to hear it from Stiles.

“My familiar,” Stiles grits out as the thing slows its steps as it approaches.

“And what, exactly, is your familiar?” Derek continues, starting the tattoo gun humming again.

Stiles very carefully does not jerk away as Derek inks in another black swirl on his arm. It’s a close thing though, because the fox has now reached the foot of Derek’s chair and is gazing up at both of them with those overly familiar amber-colored eyes.

The fox tips its head to the side when it notices Stiles looking, making an odd sort of noise that’s somewhere between a chirp and a purr. Then it curls its way around Derek’s ankles, threading between and circling them a few times before curling up on top of his boots. Derek lifts the tattoo gun away from Stiles’ arm when it does that, taking the break to look down at where the fox has tucked its nose under its tail.

“What’s your familiar, Stiles?” Derek asks, eyes on the fox until he suddenly fixes his intent green gaze on Stiles.

Stiles finds himself swallowing hard, more than once, before he gets out “A piece of my soul.”

Derek hums in satisfaction at the admission before he states, “But you’re ashamed of it. Of the form it’s taken.”

“The Nogitsune…” Stiles starts, and has to stop. That thing’s name still has power over him. He’s starting to understand how the wizards and witches in “Harry Potter” felt about Lord Voldemort. Maybe he can make “The-Fox-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” catch on with the pack.

“Was never you,” Derek says, and it’s something Stiles has heard over and over, but never believed. He doesn’t believe it now either, but it’s still nice to hear someone else believes it.

Silence falls after that, broken only by the noise of the tattoo gun and Stiles’ occasional whimper.

Derek’s set aside the tattoo gun and is wiping blood and ink from Stiles’ arm for the last time when he speaks again.

“Rejecting a part of yourself…it only hurts you.”

Stiles snorts derisively, but he can’t meet Derek’s eyes. It’s because he isn’t looking at Derek’s eyes that he notices the slight pink flush on Derek’s stubbled cheeks.

“Derek?” he asks. “What’s with the blush?”

“I’m not blushing,” Derek instantly denies.

But Stiles, all too willing to use Derek’s embarrassment as a distraction from his physical pain and emotional discomfort, keeps poking.

“Well, your cheeks are telling a different story. Tell me. Telllllll me.”

Derek doesn’t respond, instead busying himself with ripping the packaging off a sterile dressing. Stiles tries widening his eyes like he’s seen Scott do on several occasions, but if Derek’s confused expression is anything to go by, it’s probably coming off as less “puppy dog” and more “intestinal distress.” Derek carefully smoothes the dressing onto Stiles’ arm, taping it in place. His purple latex-coated fingers linger for a moment, stroking a small piece of tape near Stiles’ shoulder blade in a futile attempt to make it lay flat.

“Derek?” Stiles asks, confused by Derek’s odd silence (not that Derek being silent is odd; just that he talks a lot more now, shares things that he would have kept silent before). “What’s…what’s going on?”

Derek strips off the stained latex gloves, eyes still averted from Stiles. It’s because he’s concentrating on Derek that Stiles almost falls out of the chair in shock when the fox suddenly sits up and barks.

And then it clicks for Stiles. The fox is a physical manifestation of part of his soul. And apparently, his soul finds Derek Hale the perfect person to curl up on for a rest.

“Oh,” he says, and the word feels weighted when it drops out of his mouth, like the sudden gravity of the situation is having a different effect on it than anything else he’s said today.

Derek winces, but he appears to be determined to ignore Stiles’ revelation because instead of saying anything about it, he instead says “Leave the bandage on for at least two hours. You can shower and use some antibacterial ointment after that.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t mean to sound like he’s pleading, but he is. The fox rears up, putting its front paws on the chair Stiles is in while balancing precariously on its back paws on Derek’s boots.

But Derek scoops the fox off his boots (and the touch sends an electric jolt down Stiles’ spine) and sets it on the floor before he stands up.

“Don’t let that get infected,” Derek says, and then he’s across the room and pulling the heavy metal loft door open and then shutting it behind him before Stiles can say anything.

Stiles looks down at the fox once the clang of the metal stops reverberating through the loft. The fox raises an eyebrow at him before pulling back its lips to reveal its sharp white teeth. Stiles shudders as it reminds him of the Nogitsune’s gnashing fangs, but he pushes the reaction away.

“I don’t like you,” he says aloud. “But I don’t know if I’d have caught that without you.”

The fox barks again before wandering off to the corner of the loft it came from and disappearing much like it appeared.

Stiles slumps back in the chair and stares up at the repaired glass ceiling. His left arm is aching now, and he’s not really sure how to handle all the revelations he just had handed to him.

“Huh,” he says, and closes his eyes.

*******************

It’s not easy.

It’s not easy at all, in fact.

Stiles still rejects the fox half the time it shows up, banishing it back to nothingness when it sets him off into a panic attack.

The situation is sort of a match for the one with Derek, who starts avoiding _him_ half the time.

Stiles corners him about it one day in the loft, trapping Derek inside a circle of mountain ash. He’s rather insanely proud of himself for a moment before he notices Derek’s eyes have gone bright blue and his fangs have dropped down over his lower lip.

“Cut it out,” Stiles says, racking his hands up and down his chilled arms, which are swathed in his too-large blue-and-white sweatshirt. “That stopped scaring me a long time ago.”

Derek snarls and Stiles flinches back.

“OK, maybe it still scares me a little.”

Derek actually snorts at that, teeth and eyes returning to normal.

“Let me go, Stiles.”

“See, I don’t think I want to,” Stiles says, gesturing to the ash circle with his hands. “Because you can’t run away from me like this. And also…” he trails off, embarrassment cinching off his normally endless flow of words.

“What?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, gathering his courage.

“I don’t want to let _you_ go.”

“Oh,” Derek says, and the word is just as heavy as when Stiles had spoken it weeks ago.

“A piece of my soul,” Stiles continues, “and it curled up for a nap on _you_. I still can’t sleep through the night, and yet my soul was able to rest with _you_.”

Derek crosses his arms over his black T-shirt and turns around; it’s the most escape he can get when surrounded by the ash.

“Don’t try to act like that’s nothing,” Stile says, voice breaking a little without his consent. “It can’t be nothing.”

Derek still won’t look at him and it takes all of Stiles’ willpower not to use his willpower to force the ash to physically turn Derek around.

And then there’s a sharp little bark and Stiles loses his concentration.

Derek sighs and crouches down inside the ash ring, the lines of tension on his forehead smoothing out as he beckons the small red fox closer with the fingers of his outstretched right hand.

“Hey, Lis,” he murmurs, and Stiles shudders, although it’s not out of revulsion at the sight of the fox for once. No, it’s at the name Derek called it, and how just the sound of it off his lips seemed to send a pleasant warmth through him, like the feeling of hot water sluicing down his back as he steps into the shower.

The fox daintily picks its way forward on the loft floor. It hesitates for a moment at the ash line before nimbly leaping over it, landing in the crook between Derek’s legs and his chest, like it’s something it’s done before, like it’s comfortable with Derek.

And then, with an eerie sort of synchronicity, the pair of them turn and look at Stiles.

Stiles promptly trips over his own feet and falls down backing away from them, even though he’s fairly certain he was the predator and not the prey a moment ago.

“Wha…what did you call it?” he asks. Derek is stroking between the fox’s ears with the fingertips of his pointer and middle fingers now, and the motion is sending alternating waves of heat and cold flooding through Stiles’ system. It feels sort of like the connection he had to the Nogitsune after their separation, but unlike the draining sensation he got from that bond, this one feels as though it’s buoying him up.

“I looked it up,” Derek says. “‘Fox’ in Polish.” He smirks before he adds, “You’re sort of uncreative.”

“I am _so_ creative,” Stiles immediately snaps before he recoils in shock. “You mean it _talks?!”_

Derek shrugs and Stiles struggles up into a cross-legged position.

“It’s more… _innate_ than that,” Derek says finally, picking the word carefully.

“How?” Stiles asks, scooting closer to the ash circle and its occupants. The fox has its eyes shut and is making an odd chirruping sound Stiles is tempted to call a purr.

Derek shrugs again and Stiles huffs.

“Yes, that was super helpful, Derek. Do tell me more.”

Letting out a low growl, Derek takes up a cross-legged position similar to Stiles’, although his legs are arranged a little differently to accommodate the fox, who lets out a whine to show its displeasure at being shifted.

“Let me out of the circle, and maybe I’ll think about telling you.”

Stiles huffs, but moves his hands out in front of him and parts them over the ash line, just like he did at the rave back in sophomore year. The ash separates easily, his control over it coming easier now.

Derek picks up the fox ( _‘Lis,’_ Stiles thinks almost giddily, and it feels right) and stands. Stiles moves to follow him, but the sensation of Derek cuddling the fox against his chest leaves Stiles extremely weak in the knees. Derek seems to sense this the moment he steps out of the ash circle, because he smirks down at Stiles.

“Problem?”

“You’re supposed to be making with the explanation,” Stiles deflects, waving his hand at Derek in a ‘get on with it’ gesture.

 _‘You’re jealous,’_ Stiles hears a low, pleasant, male voice say. He jerks his head up to the fox, because Derek didn’t say that and there’s no one else here. The voice continues in his head with _‘Sometimes you catch on quick, but sometimes you’re pretty dense.’_

“Rude,” Stiles instantly retorts, then blanches. “Oh my god, I’m rude. That’s the innermost part of my soul. _Rude_.”

Derek snorts and offers Stiles his hand.

“I don’t know why it took you so long to catch on. I knew that from the moment I met you. And him, when he started visiting without you and getting chatty. You both don’t know how to shut up, by the way.”

Stiles sighs and accepts Derek’s hand as Lis lets out a soft bark that’s entirely too amused. Stiles gets pulled up and he promptly overbalances, landing against Derek’s chest and smushing the fox resting there between the two of them.

The contact is like an electric shock. Stiles skips back two steps, almost falling back on his ass.

“Why a fox?” he yells at Lis, suddenly incandescently angry. “After everything that thing did to us, to me! Why the hell would you be a fox?”

He’s breathing hard now, hands clutched into shaking fists at his side. Derek’s eyebrows have gone up, but the fox still appears perfectly calm, draped almost regally over Derek’s right arm. Stiles is suddenly very sure that the fox doesn’t contain his ADHD. It doesn’t make him feel better.

_‘The Nogitsune was a fox, yes. And it possessed you, carved out a void inside of you that only it fits, that the Nemeton has tried to fill up with darkness. You can’t change that.’_

Stiles feels the strength in his knees fail for an entirely different reason than the thrum Derek’s hold on Lis is still causing. His denim-clad knees crack against the hard cement floor of the loft and the rest of his body sort of goes slack, leaving him half-slumped over his splayed legs. His breaths start coming in shorter and shorter bursts, until he’s practically gasping for air.

 _‘I’m not a punishment, Stiles. Yes, the Nogitsune left you with wounds that will never completely seal. But you’ve survived. You’ve flourished on what was left behind, what you kept. That’s what I am. I’m the shape of your survival.’_ Lis sits up in Derek’s arms, bracing his front paws on Derek’s forearm and the rest of his body against Derek’s chest. _‘And it’s not like you’re alone, Stiles. What you do for the others is selfless (selfish sometimes, too), but you don’t have to be the one to take care of the pack all the time. That’s what pack is for…’_

“To take care of everyone,” Derek finishes, and Stiles starts, unaware that Lis had been conversing with both of them.

The distraction isn’t enough, though. He still feels lightheaded, and breathing isn’t becoming any easier. He reaches a hand up and fists it in the thick jersey sweatshirt over his chest as his vision starts to fill with black spots. Barely able to see, he looks up to find Derek and Lis hovering over him.

“Breathe, Stiles,” Derek says firmly, and Stiles sees Derek’s eyes go bright blue.

A sharp, stabbing pain starts arcing back across Stiles’ left temple, adding to the general agony he’s in. He curls in on himself, and he’s vaguely aware of some awful whimpering noise echoing in the loft.

And then he’s forced to suck in a deep lungful of air that goes down like he’s swallowed glass because two things happen simultaneously. One is that a pair of strong jaws propel needle-sharp teeth into the flesh of his wrist. The other is that his pain starts ebbing away, flowing out of him like he’s a peaceful stream sluicing his way down through a quiet forest.

The fangs leave him almost in the same timeframe they entered him, but the watery feeling doesn’t. It takes him entirely too long to figure out Lis had bitten him while Derek pressed him up against his own body and started taking away his pain through the warm, dry palm he still has pressed against the back of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles presses his face into Derek’s chest, shutting his eyes to try to concentrate solely on the beat of Derek’s heart.

It takes him a moment to realize Derek is talking, is asking him to breathe.

“Can’t,” he says, and his face bounces against Derek’s chest as the other man chuckles.

“If you can argue, you can breathe. Just keep doing it.”

Stiles nods, but it’s more for the grounding sensation of Derek’s soft black T-shirt rubbing against his cheek.

“Good,” Derek says after a minute, when Stiles’ breathing starts to sound less like the noises made by a runaway freight train. “You want to go take a rest for a bit?”

Stiles nods again, unable to choke out the words he wants to say, the questions he wants to ask.

“OK,” Derek responds, and then Stiles finds himself scooped up off the loft floor and cradled in Derek’s arms much like Lis had been, although unlike Lis, his limbs and head draped far over Derek’s arms in all directions.

“Embarrassing,” Stiles murmurs, even as he lets himself relax, eyes slipping shut.

 _‘Don’t front,’_ he hears Lis say, and he can’t tell where the little fox is as Derek starts walking with him. _‘You’ve been jealous of me since he picked me up.’_

Stiles weakly bats his hands out in front of him in denial. In apparent response, Derek lets out a soft sound that’d be a loud snicker for anyone else.

“Don’t…” Stiles says, but he can’t decide on how he wants to finish his sentence before Derek carefully sets him down on the bed. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes as Derek starts pulling off Stiles’ sneakers, followed by his jeans, for which Stiles helpfully shimmies his hips.

And then Derek is no longer at Stiles’ side.

“Don’t go.”

‘ _Don’t go.’_

“Just getting you some water,” Derek whispers. “Just keep breathing slowly until I get back. Lis.”

Apparently that’s a signal, because Lis lands gently on Stiles’ chest a few seconds later. Stiles tenses up hard at the unexpected contact with his familiar, but he hears Derek, from across the loft, say “Relax, Stiles. You’re safe.”

Lis starts kneading his paws against Stiles’ hoodie, balling up the fabric. Stiles opens his eyes to find Lis has closed his. With a shaking right hand, Stiles carefully reaches up and drags the tips of his fingers over Lis’ left ear. Lis lets out a pleased noise and opens his eyes as Stiles gives him a tentative smile.

“Soft,” he says, and Lis’ head bobs before he shoves it more firmly up into Stiles’ hand.

“Hey,” Derek says, coming back to the edge of the bed with a glass of water in hand. “Better?”

Stiles gets the feeling he’s talking about more than just the aftereffects of the panic attack, and he’s surprised to find that he might be a little okay with Lis.

“Yeah,” he says as he accepts the glass, sliding Lis a little down his chest as he props himself up drink the water inside.

“Does the Sheriff know where you are?” Derek asks when Stiles is halfway through the glass. Stiles shifts Lis again, who lets out a disgruntled bark, to dig through his sweatshirt’s pouch to retrieve his phone.

“He knew I came over here.” There are no message notifications on the phone’s home screen, so he waves the device at Derek. “He hasn’t sent out the force yet, either.”

Stiles giggles a little bit hysterically at that, because at one time his dad had snapped handcuffs on his (the Nogitsune’s) wrists and tried to take him (the Nogitsune, not him) into custody. It’s that distracting thought that lets Derek snatch his phone (actually, that was probably attributable to werewolf speed) from him.

“Hey,” he protests weakly.

Derek’s fingers fly over the screen of his phone. A moment later, there’s the ‘ding’ of an incoming text. Derek swipes his finger over the screen as Stiles watches, then nods in apparent satisfaction before setting the phone on his nightstand, just out of Stiles’ reach.

“I told your dad what happened and that you’d be staying here for a bit of a rest.”

“I am?”

Derek nods firmly.

“You are.”

“O…OK,” Stiles says, and it’s weird to _want_ to do what Derek says when he and Scott had fought so long against doing just that. He finishes off the water and Derek takes the empty glass from him, setting it on his nightstand.

Stiles is struck then by the sight of Derek shivering a little, and even with his non-advanced hearing he can see Derek’s fingers flexing as he counts them to himself.

“Ten?” Stiles asks when he finishes. Derek had told Stiles about his escapist fantasy when Kate shot him and of Stiles’ role in it, and sometimes they either count with one another or confirm that their final counts are correct and that they’re actually in reality.

Derek nods again and then seems to get nervous as an awkward silence settles between them.

Lis has no such compunctions, which cements for Stiles that the creature, no matter how loathsome its form, is truly a part of him.

_‘Would you just lie down already? If we’re going to nap, let’s nap.’_

Derek shakes his head, huffing in exasperation, but he sits down on the side of the bed and pulls off his own shoes.

“How am I supposed to refuse an offer like that?” he says.

“Can’t,” Stiles responds, moving himself and Lis over a few inches. It’s an effort; he always feels weighted down and heavy after a panic attack, and Lis certainly isn’t helping by being a metric ton of fur and claws spread out along his chest, but he manages. “Shouldn’t.”

“Okay,” Derek says. He pulls a folded green plush throw off the foot of the bed and snaps it out, letting it float down over all three of them (two of them? Is it three if two of them are technically him?) as he shuffles into the space Stiles made for him. Derek folds the blanket down over Stiles enough that Lis’ damp black nose peeks out from under the fabric.

“Comfy?” Derek asks, and he seems bemused, almost happy.

_‘Quite. Now shut up so I can nap.’_

Derek makes that almost snickering noise again, but turns on his side so he’s facing Stiles and settles down.

“I’m glad,” Derek says when Stiles is starting to have trouble keeping his eyes open.

“For?” he asks, stroking a hand down Lis’ back. Lis makes a half-pleased, half-annoyed sound at having his rest interrupted.

“That I’m not the only who can hear him now. I’m glad you’re…I’m happy for you.”

Stiles lets his eyes slip closed again, humming while he formulates some sort of response to that.

Before he can come up with one, Derek leans forward (Stiles knows he does because the sudden dip in the surface of the mattress sends him partway into Derek’s body) and drops a soft kiss on his temple.

Stiles’ eyes shoot open and he looks over at Derek. The contented look on Derek’s face shifts to one of embarrassment when Derek catches Stiles looking.

“I…uh…”

“Did you mean to do it?” Stiles asks softly, but firmly. He knows better than to let Derek avoid emotional situations and sometimes, like earlier, Derek does him the same favor.

Derek swallows hard before he nods. Stiles wriggles his hips around until he’s pressed up against Derek’s side and can rest his head on Derek’s shoulder. Lis grunts, but settles down when Stiles stops moving.

“Is this okay?” Stiles asks, and Derek answers him by rubbing his stubbled chin against Stiles’ hair. “Good.”

He shuts his eyes and firmly ignores it when a voice in his mind whispers, _‘Finally.’_

**************************

It’s not easy.

It’s not easy, but it does get easier.

Stiles becomes more proficient at using his spark, even learning to manipulate his connection with the Nemeton to his advantage. It doesn’t come without consequences. He spends a week in a coma the first time he tries to power a spell using the Nemeton and it backfires. Lis is affected as well, and spends the time stretched out unresponsive on Derek’s bed because they can’t explain a wild animal curling up on his chest at the hospital, even with Melissa’s help.

His dad, Scott and Derek hover for weeks after, flinching anytime he even mentions magic. Even Lydia fusses over him, muttering about how he’d better not give her vocal strain from keeping in a scream even as she feeds him chicken noodle soup. It’s all worth it to Stiles though, because the first time he channels the Nemeton properly he pulls Malia’s unconscious coyote form from a wendigo’s jaws and shatters the creature’s fangs at the same time with a concentrated concussive blast, which lets Kira get in close enough to land a killing blow on the child-eating thing with her katana.

He starts sleeping through the night more often than not, even if the nightmares never completely leave him. He finishes high school after some concentrated hard work on his part, some dedicated weekly study nights with the pack, and the patience and understanding of some teachers, especially Coach Finstock. Stiles even gets into every college he applies to. He doesn’t know where he’s going yet or what he wants to do, but it’s nice to have options.

Derek changes as well. He becomes more grounded in himself, more assured of his place in Scott’s ragtag little pack. It might have something to do with the fact he starts seeing Marin Morrell for therapy sessions (although Derek later tells Stiles, when he raises the issue of trust and her serving as the Alpha Pack’s one-time emissary, that he swore her an oath to call in everyone he and the Hale family had ever called an ally if she used anything he said to hurt Scott or the pack).

He starts writing too (under a penname), everything from basketball coaching manuals to children’s stories about a fun-loving wolf named Laura and her pack. He self-publishes those and Lydia illustrates them (though she’s never pleased with the way the trees look too much like one ancient tree in particular). He doesn’t make a lot of money at it, but it’s not a problem with the insurance money and the investments he’s made over the years. Besides, it makes him happy, which Derek can say of very few (but a growing amount of) things.

Something else changes, too.

The first time Derek picks up Stiles for a date, the Sheriff makes a point of cleaning his service weapon at the dining room table; the oil, brushes and clothes on the table sitting next to a prominently placed box of wolfsbane ammunition that he taps with the butt of the gun as he smiles. He then grants Derek a conspiratorial grin before yelling up the stairs at Stiles to hurry up if he doesn’t want him to start breaking out the baby photos.

The first time Stiles picks Derek up for a date, Scott is at the loft when he arrives, and he awkwardly flashes his crimson eyes at both of them before handing them a small box he says came from his mom and fleeing the area. When Stiles opens the box as Derek grabs his leather jacket, they have to delay leaving for their dinner date for 10 minutes until Stiles can catch his breath (and Derek can get the red in his cheeks to go down) from finding the box full of condoms and lube and safe sex pamphlets.

Lis becomes a near permanent fixture at Stiles’ side whenever he’s around people with knowledge of the supernatural, which is becoming an increasing pool.

Stiles banishes his familiar the first time he and Derek have sex, but the thing with Lis being a part of his soul means he still gets the fox’s snarky commentary in his head (right up until the point Derek sucks all coherency out of his mind through his cock).

They still fight. They still get into danger. They’re still self-sacrificing, and they both still think the other has the worst ideas (except in the bedroom. They’re both pretty on board with what they come up with there).

But they make it work. Stiles drives Derek to San Francisco and makes sure they stuff themselves with entirely too much sourdough bread and seafood so that Derek isn’t in Beacon Hills on the anniversary of the fire that killed his family. He takes him to Portland and they spend the day in Powell’s Books on the anniversary of the day they discovered Erica’s body, and he drives him all the way to Seattle on the anniversary of the day Boyd died.

Derek buys Stiles an enormous bouquet of flowers, then drives him to the cemetery so they can leave them on Claudia Stilinski’s grave. (They always seem to end up with flowers for Allison’s grave on those trips, too, and once, just once, Stiles leaves an offering of a tiny children’s fast-food meal wolf toy with a napkin cape marked with a penned-in, stylized “A” on the headstone Deucalion sent money for when he learned of Aiden’s passing.)

Stiles makes cinnamon rolls for Derek using Talia Hale’s recipe (she’d submitted it to the local newspaper three years before the fire). Derek takes Stiles and the Sheriff to the finest steakhouse in town, and the Sheriff shoots Derek a thankful look when Stiles is too pleased at the gesture to include his dad to notice that the Sheriff has ordered the biggest piece of sirloin on the menu and a loaded baked potato to boot.

Derek wakes Stiles up from nightmares, curling around him and Lis when they’re about Gerard or the Alphas or the latest threat, and gently shooing Lis from the bedroom when they’re about the Nogitsune. Stiles learns how to unobtrusively pull Derek back when he falls into a fit of rage, to calm him when even Scott’s True Alpha status can’t get him to back down.

They find comfort in each other, although Stiles will always claim to like the early Saturday mornings they curl up around each other best (even if he always claims the sex they have is the best whilst in the throes of passion).

It’s on one of these Saturday mornings that Stiles drifts into wakefulness in Derek’s loft, slowly becoming aware of Derek snuffling into his left armpit. They’re both on their stomachs, Stiles’ arms slung around the pillow his head is on and Derek’s right arm slung over Stiles’ back and curled under his ribcage on the opposite side.

“D’rek?” he murmurs, cracking open an eye. He sees Lis curled up into a ball just off Derek’s left shoulder, head resting on his fluffy tail.

“Sssh,” Derek murmurs into Stiles’ left pectoral muscle, nuzzling the lines of his tattoo there with his nose. “Dark.”

“Sleep?” Stiles asks, yawning. He lifts his left shoulder enough that he can plant a kiss in Derek’s smooth black hair.

“Sleep,” Derek agrees muzzily, tightening his hold on Stiles.

 _‘Disturbing my beauty rest,’_ Lis intones in a half sing-song voice without so much as twitching.

“Wouldn’t want that,” Stiles says, eyes closing as he starts to drift back to sleep. He presses another kiss to Derek’s hair. “Love you,” he whispers.

“L’ve you, too,” Derek says. Then his tongue darts out and he licks Stiles’ pec in apparent chastisement. “Now go to sleep. Tired.”

“Okay, Sour Wolf,” Stiles says, and buries himself back in the pillow in front of him. “Sleeping in it is.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> That last image was inspired by this piece of fanart: allantieeart.tumblr.com/post/79057995175/lately-i-really-thought-about-drawing-some-sterek. Please drop by the Tumblr to compliment the artist on their lovely piece of work. 
> 
> This was meant to be just a short ficlet based on that beautiful scene. But then I just ended up farther and farther back into the timeline, and the story just kept growing from the simple little ficlet to what you see now. 
> 
> If you enjoyed it, please leave me a comment to let me know. I really do appreciate them.


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